Clan Zar were silent as the grave as the ship rolled into port, their faces pinched and weapons in hand. Murdu appraised his people with a subtle glare, making sure none were taking the arrival of the vessel lightly. Thankfully, his Clan's reception to their new 'allies' looked to be about as cold as their reaction to Pereton's empty promises. The past lived in the present with the Zar, the mistakes of yesterday helping lead them towards a better future. This new alliance spat in the faces of that, Murdu knew, and he wasn't the only one. Clo'dorsha looked to Salas by his side, noting that the eager excitement which had gripped her a moment before had faded, replaced instead by stoic wariness, her hand on the sword at her hip firm and without a hint of anxious fear. That was good, Murdu thought, she was strong when it counted, even if the habit of letting her emotions rule her was proving difficult for her to break.

She would not need to fight, of course. Any who dared get close to the daughter of Clo'dorsha would be struck down by the man himself. If they were strong enough to get past Murdu then Salas would stand no chance in any case. It was a small thought, but an insidious one that slithered through his mind. He couldn't allow Salas to be harmed, and he took comfort from Nanali's words.

Cryptic though they may be, the seer was rarely wrong. She had not told Salas of any impending battle and Murdu tried to be reassured by that. It did, for a time, but as he spotted movement atop the deck of the ship, he couldn't help but feel a shadow creep over his heart, his own hand tightening on the axe at his hip.

Pereton'Zar waved a hand to the war-drummers as he ordered them to beat in welcome. They began slowly, looking to each other with uneasy expressions before following the command of their Jarl. Pereton noticed the hesitation, but didn't act to quell such an act of disrespect, which caused Murdu's brow to descend further. The Jarl's word, even from the lowly Pereton, was law in the Zar. If it had been his father in his place, the drummers would have been whipped for such open insolence. Yet Murdu, perhaps more than any present, could understand the reason for their doubt. The Zar's faith in Pereton, once strong, was slowly waning as he pulled them further and further down this doomed path, one which hadn't been travelled in hundreds of years. The risk he was taking was great. Should he fail, it could mean the end of the Zar, leaving Gloryhome open to another, lesser Clan. Such a travesty would destroy Wellind, destroy all their peoples, not just those at home.

But if he succeeded, if he brought the Berserkers back to the shores of Wellind, it would make his story. He would be a legend among all Clans, not just his own. Such prestige, such influence, would allow him to push Murdu and the other naysayers out. It would make his control of the Zar, the most powerful Clan in Wellind, absolute.

Pereton's restraint was non-existent. He would believe himself invincible with an army of Berserkers at his back. Even should this foolish plan of his go the way he envisions, it would all be for naught in the end. Ragora, the Empire, no nation would tolerate a repeat of the past. When they learn of the threat in Gloryhome, they will look to the Hall of Tyra to answer. A ship full of their monsters would destroy the newly birthed Berserkers and put all they found to the sword.

It was not something that Murdu liked to dwell on, the fact that they lived due to being beneath notice, but it was a reality that his people had stomached for decades. To challenge the status quo, to threaten organisations and powers beyond their ken, it was the path to annihilation. He couldn't understand why the other Elders could not see it, how they were so easily swayed by Pereton's words.

Casin's warning, her commitment, bellowed out in the back of his mind as he grumbled silently to himself. That particular subject was for another day, another spare moment. Now was the time for focus, to be one with the land and sea. Anything less could mean his death. Pereton had already stated that his new allies were Knights, those that had power enough to challenge someone like the King of Lightning. Murdu'Zar doubted that was the case, but he owed it to the position that Pereton held to hear out this newest lunacy, especially so seeing as he had no choice in the matter, not anymore.

“Papa,” Salas whispered into her father's ear, though she had to stand on the balls of her feet to do so, and even then she came woefully short, “That woman doesn't look like an Imperial.”

Murdu said nothing in response as he eyed the first arrival who walked down the hastily erected gangplank of the large frigate. The ship itself was of Ingemar, that much couldn't be denied, nor could it be ignored that it was a Navy vessel, though it lacked the standards flown by such. The crew seemed to be disciplined, going about their tasks with unfaltering devotion, their training speaking well of them. It said more that not a glance was thrown in the direction of the near five hundred men and women of the Zar who had gathered. Over-confidence, or something else entirely?

Finally, Murdu turned his eyes to the fair maid leaving the ship, each delicate step evidence of her fragility as she held the rope that lined the walkway tightly, as though afraid of falling into the White Sea below and being dashed upon the rocks. Salas was right, this woman was not Imperial. Those of Ingemar were tan, olive at most. This one was Andapan. Her skin was the colour of chocolate, a rare treasure on the Isles of Wellind. Her hair was cut short, hidden under an elaborate white hat that was touched with pink. Her dress was of the same, white and frilly, impeding any combat ability that the woman may possess, not that Murdu believed she possessed any. She had the look of a Lady to her, one who had reached her middle years. He had seen many in his lifetime, though they were usually screaming and running for their lives. This one though, this one appeared completely untouched by the sight of the giants before her. Her pearly teeth widened into a welcoming grin, her warm brown eyes devoid of any fear. In fact, there was barely any emotion there at all.

For some reason, Murdu felt his hackles rise. His instincts, honed through countless years of war and the shedding of blood, spoke to him. The whisper was subtle, but it came with the wind and reverberated through the earth beneath his feet. His grip on his axe tightened and he took an involuntary step forward, placing himself between Salas and the woman. Many would see it as an overreaction, he knew, but none had seen what he had seen. A female she may be, a Lady, but there was little doubt in his mind that she was a killer.

Pereton'Zar strode out to meet the woman, his arms thrown open in excited welcome. The Lady curtseyed, a form of respectful greeting in the Empire, before she greeted him with warmth. It was a feeling that did not reach her eyes.

“Lady Quetzal, I presume?” Pereton opened, his stare alight with fervent hope, “I have heard much about you from our mutual acquaintance. The Mentor speaks of you fondly. We of the Zar welcome you to Gloryhome, the heart of Wellind!”

“And what a welcome it is, Jarl Pereton'Zar,” The woman replied, her voice soft and accent unidentifiable. If he hadn't seen her dark skin, he would have assumed she was from the Empire, or perhaps the Queendom. There was even a hint of something more, underneath all of that, almost as though she was hiding her true speech with false tones, “I am greatly pleased to see all of your Clan in attendance. You honour me with such a display.”

“Please, the honour is mine,” Pereton replied, his words careful as he tried to articulate his words, to not stumble over the rough accent of Wellind. It grated on Murdu's ears, “We received word yesterday that your ships were approaching. I am glad to see you arrived in one piece. The White Sea can be troublesome to those not of the Eastern Islands.”

“The journey was as pleasant as it could be, given the circumstances. I must admit that when we received your message, we were a little concerned. You led us to believe that the cooperation of the Zar was guaranteed, yet now we discover that some convincing will be needed.”

The words caused the Elders among the Zar to bristle, even those who claimed to support the Jarl. Pereton no doubt felt the stares on his back, his next words tailored to pander, “I may be Jarl, but mine is not the only voice in counsel. Since this course of action affects all of the Zar, we must be of one mind.”

“I see,” Quetzal replied simply, her own, dead stare looking past the Jarl and to the others arranged on the dock of Gloryhome. Murdu felt her eyes linger on him for a moment, then on Salas for a moment longer than that. Confusion found a place on her face as she looked to the daughter of Clo'dorsha, before it was gone, “Then we should begin as soon as possible. The Mentor has given me leave to make decisions of import on his behalf. My word is his word.”

Pereton's expression immediately fell, glancing to the ship behind her, “He is not here?”

Quetzal giggled girlishly, causing bile to rise in Murdu's throat. She was a wolf wearing the skin of a sheep. He was glad to see that, as inept as he was, Pereton was not falling for the act. As Jarl, the man was often found wanting, but he could still spot a lie if it was flaunted in front of his face, “I'm afraid not. Other matters have taken his attention elsewhere.”

A hint of panic touched Pereton's features, his gaze flickering back to those of his Clan standing behind him, “Then-”

“Have no fear, Pereton'Zar,” Quetzal hushed him with a gesture, “All that was promised to you has arrived. Never let it be said that the Mentor was not a man of his word.”

“O-Of course,” Pereton replied, trying to make himself appear a man, puffing out his chest as though he hadn't just deflated like a fool before the very eyes of those he was supposed to lead, “I would think no less of such a great man, who will aid us in guiding the Zar to a better future, free from the chains of the past!”

The words were meant to be heard but, like those he spoke before, they fell on deaf ears. Such talk was empty, as Pereton himself was.

“So, those ships behind you-”

“I think it best we hold this discussion with your Clan heads first, before we deliver upon our arrangement,” Quetzal said with a thin smile, “There is little need to speak of cargo if we will be returning to the Empire within the hour.”

“I'm sure that will not be the case, Lady,” Pereton replied, bowing his head to the woman. Murdu grumbled but said nothing. The most powerful Jarl in Wellind, offering respect to an outsider. It was another nail in his coffin, one which was seen by all the Zar who glared at the foreigner with nothing but hatred and distrust, “My people know which way the winds blows. Please, follow me to the high hall. There we will meet as equals and you can deliver your Mentor's promise to the Zar.”

“Of course.” Quetzal said politely before looking over her shoulder at seemingly nothing at all, “Zelato. Come.”

The air behind the woman warped, reality shifting and transforming as a sudden tear of silver light appeared. Murdu drew his axe, even as the others of his Clan did the same, their reactions instantaneous and followed by bellowing roars of surprise and anger. Their thoughts were one in that moment: They had been betrayed, their Jarl had led them to death. He heard Salas draw her sword with trembling hands, a mixture of fear and adrenaline running through her system. She was not ready for something like this, unprepared. He needed to protect her.

In the face of the small army of Wellinders, Quetzal seemed unmoved, her mouth fixed into a firm line as she looked to the suddenly trembling Pereton. The Jarl looked about ready to shit his britches as he pulled one of his guard forward to stand before him, to shield him.

The light quickly grew to become blinding, causing others to look away, including Salas, but Murdu did not. He grimaced as he took another step forward towards the blazing silver, his jaw set, his body prepared as the heartbeat of the land thumped in his chest.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished, leaving in its place another visitor.

This one was tall, nearly as tall as Murdu himself, though he couldn't be more different besides. His body was wrapped in extravagantly bright material, not an inch of skin to be seen. Murdu'Zar had often seen such clothing on the princelings of the mainland, but this man couldn't be any more different to those foppish fools who'd never wielded a sword. He seemed impossibly thin, each limb so skeletal that Murdu could've broken him with but one hand. That was, if he was an ordinary man. On the stranger's face was a mask of porcelain, one which was fixed in a expression of joy, the smile far too wide to be natural and only adding to the creeping feeling that descended Murdu's spine. The man, Zelato, Murdu assumed, bowed low to the back of Quetzal who barely acknowledged that anything had taken place, “I live to serve, Sweet Lady.”

The sarcasm and utter disregard for the woman that could be heard in those few words was astounding, yet Quetzal seemed hardly fazed by it. She but smiled brightly and touched Pereton's arm gently, his axe having jumped into his grip at the first sign of danger, “Have no fear, Pereton'Zar. Zelato is the other who was sent with me on this voyage. He has the confidence of the Mentor, I can assure you he means no harm to you and yours. Your message mentioned making a statement of our intent, of what we bring to the table, and I believe this little display depicted that quite nicely.”

A display of power. A not so subtle threat that was all too obvious to Clo'dorsha. Was the man invisible? Was that the power that his Smith Gifted him, or was it something else entirely? Whatever his abilities, the point was made to the Zar. Pereton hadn't lied in saying that he had Knights at his back. Whether or not they were powerful was another matter. The gaze of Clo'dorsha grew troubled as he looked to his peoples. The older generation seemed just as suspicious as before, if not more so, but the youngest seemed to be in awe of this show of magic. Many had grown up on tales of the Berserkers, looking to the past and ignoring the lessons to be learned there, too caught up in the stories of glory and strength. He was disappointed to see that Salas was no exception to that, her mouth dropping at the stranger's arrival. Her eyes, so like her mother's, filled with wonder.

That would not do.

“Keep your wits, Salas'Zar,” Murdu said softly. He didn't know how powerful the senses of the Knight was, but he doubted he had the ability to hear his shallow murmur over the howl of the White Sea, “You are the daughter of Clo'dorsha, not some child taken in by cheap tricks. Remember yourself.”

Salas' stare snapped to his and self-awareness was swift to follow. She sheepishly hefted her sword, her guard up once more, “Yes, papa. I'm sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” Murdu snapped, “Better yourself.”

Salas nodded but said nothing. Instead she fixed a hostile glare onto the newcomers, her breathing even and ready for battle should it be joined. That was good, the lesson was learned. How many times it would have to be reinforced, however, remained to be seen.

That was when Murdu noticed that the masked man was staring at him.

Such a creature Clo'dorsha had never met before. What kind of a man hid his face from those he sought an alliance with? It was not his place to point out such things, but Murdu felt it regardless. He could not see the man's eyes, but he didn't need to. His time on Ouros, sailing the seas and building his legend, had given him an almost painfully acute sense of self-awareness. He could feel Zelato's eyes on him as easily as he could feel the chill of the air against his exposed skin. The man's stare was eerie, predatory. It was the very same feeling that he had felt upon seeing the woman from Andapa for the first time. There was something off about the pair, a shared sense of malevolence that was hidden beneath the thinnest veneer of politeness. If Pereton had hoped for this meeting to put Murdu's own fears regarding his ill-advised venture to bed, he would be sorely disappointed. The longer the two stayed in Gloryhome, the longer Murdu knew he would go without rest.

The Jarl and his two, new companions followed him up the dock, the rest of the crew remaining aboard their ship. Murdu all but growled as Pereton began to introduce the two to those assembled. It truly was easy to see where the dividing line was between those who supported their Jarl and those who didn't. Casin'Zar barely looked at the two, only spitting on the ground at their feet as the introduction was made, causing Pereton to bristle at the blatant disrespect. It was a foolish move and one which may cost her, but not here and now. Clo'dorsha, and all else present, knew of Casin's importance to the Clan. Her family had built the raiding ships they had all sailed for generations, the knowledge of her line a shield which would protect her from all-comers, even the Jarl himself. Still, there was a limit and Casin seemed insistent on testing her own. Pereton was hardly a patient man, and he might overlook Casin's position in the Clan if she threatened his own.

“...And this is Murdu'Zar, Clo'dorsha-”

“No introductions are needed with this man, Jarl Pereton'Zar,” Quetzal cut off the Jarl, her tone polite but brokering no argument. The man took it like a whipped dog, head bowed silently. How the mighty had fallen. What would his father say at such a display? “I know of you, Clo'dorsha of the Zar. You are a feared figure in the Empire and the Eastern Islands. Quite the thing for one who doesn't have the power of a Knight. Your exploits are legendary.”

Cheap words, ploys meant to earn his ear, but Murdu was not Pereton. He stared at the woman sternly, then at Zelato behind her, who continued to glare at him with that unhinged look to his eye. Murdu said nothing to either of the two. They could talk as much as they wished, but time was precious and he had nothing to say to them. Pereton began to look more uncomfortable as the silence drew out, as Zelato, Quetzal and Murdu continued to stand there. The Jarl broke first, his need to make the moment pass overtaking his sense, “And this is his daughter, Salas'Zar, a promising young warrior.”

Quetzal's gaze flickered to Salas, who stuck her chin out, pulling herself up to her full height. While she was not the same size as one of the Zar, Wellinder blood flowed through her veins and she was taller than most mainlanders. She clenched her jaw, sword still in hand though neither looked threatened by the presence of the weapon. Quetzal's expression changed as she looked to Salas, a curious glint appearing in her warm stare as though she were pondering some strange puzzle, “Now that... is interesting.”

“Very interesting,” The man, Zelato, said soon after as he too looked to Salas, his voice effeminate and light, “Who would have thought?”

“Indeed,” Quetzal replied, a chuckle leaving her lips as she held out a hand to Salas, “Hello, Salas-”

The woman came to a stop as a great hand wrapped around her wrist. Murdu'Zar towered over the foreigners, his eyes promising nothing but their deaths should they continue to address his daughter, “You will not speak to her.”

It was a promise. A man of few words Murdu was, but when he did speak all listened. The entire dock fell silent as his threat was spoken, the people of the Zar sensing the shift in the stiff breeze, the pressure of violence that made the air heavier, made the White Sea churn all the more ferociously. Fingers stroked weapons as expressions became fixed. One thing was sure, clear to Murdu and to the two strangers before him. Should they press him too far, he wouldn't be fighting alone.

“Forgive me, Clo'dorsha,” Quetzal said, his voice dead of all emotion as she looked up to Murdu with not a hint of fear on her face, smile still firmly in place, “It was an innocent greeting. Nothing more.”

“Keep your greetings to yourself, mainlander,” Murdu spoke bluntly, his voice calm and collected, “You are not of the Zar, not of my people. Do not speak to my daughter.”

“Papa...” Murdu raised a hand to silence his daughter before she could finish speaking. Salas looked hesitant but took a step back until she was slightly behind him. A warrior she would soon be, but until then she would be under his protection. When she was recognised by the Clan she would stand alone, but until then Salas was his blood and bone. He would kill all who wished to harm her. He didn't know what the outsiders found interesting about his daughter, but considering the hungry looks in their eyes it was easy to guess that it wasn't to her benefit. He would slaughter them should they take another step, Knight or no Knight. He spoke to the God of War silently, asking for strength should battle be joined.

“As you say, Clo'dorsha. I offer my most humble apologies,” Quetzal bowed her head to the giant, her smile contrite, “I will keep my distance.”

“See that you do.” Murdu growled.

“That is enough, Murdu,” Pereton said, trying to make himself appear to be in control despite being anything but. His order only compounded his own weakness, “Lord Zelato and Lady Quetzal are my honoured guests.”

“You have no say in how I run my house, Pereton,” Murdu said softly, looking to the Jarl with nothing but derision in his eyes, “And these two have no place in mine.”

“But as Jarl, I am the leader of the Zar,” Pereton reminded, using his title, now all but empty, “I say these two are welcome in Gloryhome. As one of our Clan, you must accept that.”

Murdu'Zar stared at Pereton before nodding his head sharply, “You are Jarl. It is your right.”

“And it is right for you all to be wary of us,” Quetzal shouted out to those gathered as Murdu released his grip on her arm, “We know of the atrocities that have been committed against your peoples in the past. Of the unspeakable genocide that is still an open wound to this day, but please, good people, we are here to help you. To make right the mistakes of yesterday and prepare a better tomorrow. All we ask for is a chance to speak. That is all.”

Many of the young seemed to be moved by the words. Murdu had heard something similar weeks prior, when Pereton had first brought this idea of working with outsiders before the Zar in council. Her words coming out of his mouth. Looking to him now, Murdu knew that the Jarl was a firm believer in what was being said, nodding along, his eyes filled with excitement as tremors ran the length of his body. Murdu knew, in that single moment, that imploring Pereton to find sense would be an exercise in futility. The man had already chosen his path and he would do anything he could to see his people walk it.

Murdu caught sight of Casin's eyes, saw her nod in support, a silent reinforcement of her earlier words. Clo'dorsha took a step back, bringing Salas with him as Pereton and his guests continued on their way. The others fell into step behind him. All would follow to the high hall, but only the Elders would be permitted entry. Casin took a place at Murdu's left side as Salas walked on his right. His Furies gathered behind him, their battle-hardened stares not leaving the backs of the foreigners for an instant.

“Are you alright, Salas?” Casin'Zar asked gently, smiling at the young girl. While many in the Zar did not tolerate the mixed blood that flowed through his daughter's veins, Casin was not one of them. She had been great friends with Ferda, being present for both her joining to Murdu and Salas' birth. She'd tried to look out for Salas where she could, Murdu knew, but he'd had to curb that habit more than once. Adversity would only help his daughter grow that much stronger.

“I'm fine, Auntie Casin,” Salas replied respectfully, touching two fingers to either shoulder, a mark of formal greeting in the Zar and one which was reserved for only those that were considered close family, “But those two... they don't seem normal. Its like a part of them exists elsewhere, in a different place. They seem dead in the eyes.”

“I noticed the same,” Casin said with a grim nod, “Have no fear, your father will keep you safe.”

Salas bristled at that, her eyes catching Brinda's smirk from the corner of her vision, “I do not need protection.”

The corners of Murdu's lips almost raised at that. He heard her mother in her voice, saw her in his mind. She was the same, fire and water, both sides of the coin. Ferda had hated relying on anyone for anything. It was one of the reasons that Murdu had loved her so.

“I'm sure you don't, but it is foolish to not accept aid where it is needed. Hard-headedness does not make the warrior, a savvy mind does,” Casin replied firmly. A good lesson and one which Murdu believed Salas was already aware of, but it went against her nature to follow it, despite how many times he'd tried to instil the virtue himself. A hard thing to break, ones nature, but it could be done. Salas would learn herself, in time. Only on the battlefield, only when bathing in blood, would the lessons that Murdu had taught her throughout her life come into focus. When death was around every corner, everything became clearer.

Murdu turned to Brinda, “Are the children safe?”

The Fury nodded immediately, “Yes, Great One. Henry sent a messenger. We had them moved to your hall for safety. Several of our best watch over them.”

Their best would mean little to Knights, but Murdu nodded regardless. He couldn't allow his own doubt to shine through. He was their leader, their Clo'dorsha. To show weakness meant death, especially so in Wellind, where only the strong could survive.

Pereton had neglected to take the young into account when he informed all of the coming of his allies, but Murdu would not be so foolish. To put their youngest at risk could mean the death of Zar. He had made arrangements to have them moved to a safe location in case of an attack. His own hall was optimal as it was far from port, outside of the range of any Inscribed cannons. Murdu hadn't noticed anything of the sort on the ship that had docked, but that didn't mean the two still sitting further out didn't. Better to be safe than sorry.

At the very least, they would be out from underfoot. He didn't want one of the children being punished because they offended a Knight. They were a brash and arrogant lot, drunk on the power that they hadn't earned. Quick to anger and quicker to punish. Clo'dorsha had seen it dozens of times before. He'd hoped to take the whole brood, but some amongst the Zar, mainly the supporters of Pereton, had denied him. They placed their faith elsewhere. Murdu just hoped that they wouldn't come to regret it.

Despite the sheer numbers walking the streets of Gloryhome, the silence was all-encompassing as the Zar made their slow walk towards the high hall. The usual sounds that filled the air were gone now, replaced by an oppressive and anxious need for answers, for clarification. Those who weren't Elders would have to be patient for a while longer, until the gathering had broken and the Jarl gave permission for what was spoken to be spread to the people. Quetzal's words had gotten many curious, the apology unexpected, but that would do little to change hearts and mind, especially so for the older warriors of the Clan. They had seen too much, endured too much, to be swayed by the braying of an outlander from a country that had long since been their enemy.

The high hall came into sight after a short while and the clan began to break off into groups, their exchanges short and brief as all eyes followed their Jarl. Pereton led the two strangers to the steps of his home and turned to the crowd once more, his expression solemn, “I invite the Elders into my home, to speak with our guests. All others will wait here for their head to return.”

Pereton turned without another word and moved through the great doors. Zelato and Quetzal were fast on his tail as his loyal followers were the first to follow after. Murdu looked to Salas, exchanging a look with his daughter, noting the worry in her eyes. She was distracted, her mind divided. He should have struck her, should have purged the weakness, but found that he could not. If the meeting didn't go as planned, he didn't want the last memory Salas had of her father being one of punishment, “Stay close. I don't think this will take long.”

“Yes, papa,” Salas said, looking like she wanted to ask something else but her tongue was failing her. Murdu would have shook his head in frustration if he could, but he left well enough alone, instead waiting patiently until she could form her words, “I... What did that woman mean? Why did they look at me like that?”

Murdu had been wondering the same, but he wasn't sure he wished to know the answer, “It matters not. Keep your mind fixed on seeing this day through. I will return shortly.”

“Papa!” Salas called before Murdu had taken two steps, smiling at her father, “Good luck.”

Murdu nodded once in response before walking after the others. He'd had an urge to hug his daughter then, something he hadn't done since she was young and her mother was alive, but he fought against the impulse. Casin walked with him, her face grim, but set to purpose. Clo'dorsha noted Nanali out of the corner of his eye, hidden in the now dissipating crowd. Her old and weathered face calm, but her eyes dancing with trepidation. He knew the seer saw more than any normal man or woman. He thought on what she had seen to put such unease on her face. He would not seek an answer, nor would she give it to him if he did. Some knowledge is best left unsaid.

He knew that better than most.

The heat of the firepit in the hall was a welcome reprieve from the harsh winds of Wellind. The Elders were getting situated, placing themselves in their customary positions. Murdu stayed to the back as Casin moved to sit in her own place. He was an Elder, true, but he didn't want to sit amongst his clansmen. He'd rather be close to the door.

He noted the blood that stained the stone near the Jarl's throne. The only remnant of the creature known as Grog, who had been stripped of the title Zar. He was given to the White Sea, his body bound with rock so he would sink into the depths. None mourned his death, nor did any attend his fall. A man without family, forgotten. It was what he deserved.

Pereton went to his throne, spotting the stain as Murdu had and gazing up at the Clo'dorsha. Their eyes met, the challenge made, as the Jarl of the Clan took his seat, “I thank you all for attending. I present to you our allies, the ones who will ensure success in our future endeavours. Please, let us hear what they have to say.”

“Can't say I'm that interested, Jarl,” Jolus'Zar said first, the old warrior rising from his place with difficulty, his injuries of old slowing him, “After what was said on the dock I believe the explanation rests on your head, not on your... 'guests.'”

“I do not know of what you speak, Jolus'Zar.”

“Jolus speaks of how these strangers seemed surprised that we weren't bowing and scraping before them as they arrived,” Casin said with a snort of annoyance before pointing at Quetzal, “That one seemed to think that you'd already gained our support, which couldn't be further from the truth, Jarl.”

Pereton raised a hand, the panic that he displayed at the docks gone now as he shook his head, “A misunderstanding, I assure you. One which I aim to rectify now. I'm sure that once you hear what Lady Quetzal and Lord Zelato have to say-”

“They weren't even whom you were expecting, Jarl,” Hili'Zar said, his tone respectful, but still questioning, “This man, the one you call the Mentor, he was supposed to be in attendance was he not? He is not here, sending a woman from Andapa and a man who hides his face in his place, yet you still trust him? Do you even know this man's true name?”

“I do not.”

“And still you trust him?”

“I do, Hili'Zar,” Pereton intoned, “This woman was the one who was to accompany the Mentor here. He has not come, true, but his promise is still valid. Is it not, Lady Quetzal?”

“It is, Jarl,” Quetzal said, tilting her hat slightly as she smiled brightly, “On the ships outside of port we carry one hundred Smiths as promised. All the means you would need to resurrect the Berserkers and solidify the Zar Clan as the power in Wellind.”

“Look around you, woman,” Hili'Zar growled, “We have Gloryhome. The Zar are already the strongest. You giving us these Smiths brings nothing but danger to these shores. If the Empire heard of even us meeting you, our lands would burn and our children put to death.”

There were many murmurs of agreement at that, all but the most fervent of Pereton's followers swayed in part by Hili's words. It was obvious, but to hear it spoken out loud made the danger of what they were doing all the more real. Murdu grumbled along with the mob but did nothing to add his own opinion to the pile. Best to wait, to take the temperature of the room. Right now, things were not going well for the Jarl.

“It is true,” Quetzal said, her voice, soft though it was, cutting through the accumulated rumbling of the Elders with ease, “The threat you face if you accept our offer is real. Beyond real, it could destroy your Clan.”

Pereton looked shocked, his eyes very nearly popping out of his skull as he gripped his axe fiercely, looking to Quetzal as though she was mad.

“However, you must ask yourselves if it is a risk you can afford not to take,” The woman continued, walking around the firepit and meeting every Elder in turn. She paused as her eyes met Murdu for a moment before moving on once more, “We see what is happening in Wellind. Strong Clans are born every day and it will only be a matter of time until one is large enough to challenge the Zar. It is an inevitable fact of life on these broken isles.”

“We earn our strength through battle and turmoil,” Jolus'Zar shouted, gaining a roar of approval in response, “If an enemy comes, we crush them as we always have. It is the Zar way, the Wellinder way. If you hope to appeal to our sense of self-preservation then you've chosen the wrong people, 'Lady' Quetzal.”

Many laughed at his derogatory tone but Quetzal seemed untouched by it. She only shook her head, “I am aware of what makes this country so strong. Your prowess is well-recorded. I know of how the Zar took Gloryhome. I know of the glories that your previous Jarl, Kalin'Zar, and your Clo'dorsha led you to.”

The mention of his name inevitably drew gazes, all respectful, some filled with awe. Even amongst the Elders, there were a few who looked to Murdu as though he was otherworldly, touched by the Gods themselves. Pereton's face fell with the mention of his father and past victories, his scowl pronounced as he was over-shadowed by a dead man. It was a wound that cut the boy deep, Murdu knew, a constant reminder that he hadn't earned his position, but inherited it.

“You say you are here for the future, but remind us of the past,” Casin'Zar said, her eyes not leaving the woman as she folded her arms, “Tell us your plan, Andapan. Your honeyed words mean little in this hall. Pereton may be convinced, but many of us are not.”

“Nor should words alone sway you,” Quetzal said firmly, “I am in the business of action, so here is my offer for you and your kin: If you agree to our conditions, we will aid you in unifying Wellind and the procurement of more Smiths for your burgeoning ranks of Berserkers. In exchange, we ask that you do one task for us.”

The murmurs quickly started up again, a few laughs thrown in as those present pondered the absurdity of the statement. Many of the Elders looked baffled by it all, their conversations loud and clear for all to hear. Casin remained silent, as did Murdu, the two thinking on the implications of such a promise.

“You offer to unify Wellind? Why? Our strength lies in our division, culling the weak and making our strongest stronger still,” Jolus'Zar said with a disgusted shake of his head, “Murdu was right, this is a farce. Why are we listening to this nonsense?”

“Because that is where our future lies, Jolus'Zar,” Pereton spoke up as he took to his feet, banging the pommel of his great axe against the stone to bring all eyes on him, “With Berserkers in our ranks we could quell all the other Clans within a year. A year! Imagine it! One Wellind, one Clan. The Zar would fly higher than ever before.”

“You try to soar too high, boy,” Jolus growled, forgetting he was speaking to his Jarl in this most sacred place, “You wish to crown yourself King of all Wellind? Is that what this is about? You wish to follow the path of Corrocoe and Ragora? You set yourself up for failure. The Empire will learn of this and we will be turned to dust. This time it won't just be a slaughter, we'll be hunted to extinction!”

“Peace, brothers. Perhaps we could hear out the rest of this plan, Jolus'Zar?” Derik said, his hands raised to put a stop to the muttering and arguing, “I grant you it is a bold statement, but we must hear all if we are to make a decision in the interests of the Zar.”

“Did your papa drop you on your head when you were a boy, Derik!” Jolus roared, “This only ends in our destruction. The Jarl wants to leave his father's shadow and his ambitions will mean the end of us!”

“You will be respectful of me, Jolus'Zar,” Pereton said dangerously, fingering the blade of his axe, “This is a meeting of Elders and I am your Jarl.”

“A false Jarl wearing a false crown!” Jolus snapped, his words causing a shiver to run through the room. Murdu felt it, could see the shift as it took place. Jolus had forgotten himself. Such disrespect had to be answered. Clo'dorsha silently implored his friend to sit down, to master his anger as he had taught Murdu to do years ago, but it was all for naught as he continued, “You stand as Jarl because it was your father's wish, Pereton, and we all honoured it because of what he did for the Zar. It should never have been you!”

Pereton gritted his teeth, hefting his axe as fury built in his eyes. He took a single step forward, his grip around the haft of his weapon so tight that his hands shook. Disrespect had to be answered. Yet, Pereton wouldn't do it. No, more than that, he couldn't do it. Because he knew the result of such an act.

Jolus, unlike Grog, was a warrior of many years of service. He was favoured in the eyes of the Gods, having reached an age where he could put down his sword and rest for the remainder of his days. To punish him for his blatant insults, Pereton would have to challenge Jolus. There was little doubt that such a meeting would end with Jolus' death, but the old man had hung up his weapons. He would pick another to fight for him and there was little doubt as to who that person would be.

Pereton looked to Murdu then, who stared back at the Jarl impassively. He didn't move, didn't blink, but still he exuded a sense of silent threat, one which was carried by the story etched into his skin and the shadow he cast across the hall. Clo'dorsha had the option to reject standing in place for Jolus, but all present knew of their relationship, that he would not hesitate to accept. Pereton knew that if he were to face Murdu he would die before he could swing his father's axe.

All watched as this realisation passed over the features of the mighty Jarl, whose rage drained away quickly. He tried to appear composed but he was anything but. He had come close to death, the next words he would have spoken all but assuring it. Instead he'd managed to stave off the executioner for another day.

“I will spare you my anger today, Jolus'Zar,” Pereton said quietly, disguising his fear with mercy, “I know the plan I speak of is extreme. I will not hold your words against you.”

Jolus glared at the man, his own anger still mounting as he looked to Murdu and then back to Pereton, realising what had just taken place.

“Coward.” Jolus spat on the ground at his feet and strode towards the doors without a backward glance, throwing them open and stepping back out into the harsh cold of Gloryhome. The slamming of those great doors causing a ringing to fill the hall, causing all to remain silent until it dissipated.

“I can understand Jolus'Zar's frustration, his pain,” Pereton began, desperate to try and regain control, “We have all heard the stories woven by the Speakers. But I tell you that this is the way forward. If we unify our Islands, the Empire and Ragora won't be able to touch us.”

“That may be true, Jarl,” Hili'Zar began, looking around him awkwardly, “But what are we to do in the meantime? A hundred Berserkers are nothing to the monsters from the Hall of Tyra. They will come and they will burn everything to the ground.”

“Not if it is done correctly,” Quetzal said, looking unfazed by the drama that had just taken place as she smiled, “The reason for such swift action in the past was because the Berserkers of Wellind were causing trouble for the Empire up and down the coast. If we plan accordingly, we can keep the secret of Clan Zar's power hidden until the opportune moment. Subtlety will be required.”

“Subtlety?” Hili snorted to much laughter, though it was still rather hitching after Jolus' display, “Hardly a skill of ours.”

“But one you will learn,” Quetzal replied, “As your Jarl said, once Wellind is united and your Berserkers are given time to grow into their powers you will be a force to reckoned with. That was another failure that killed the first coming of the Berserkers: A lack of training. We can offer you that, can give your Bonded ones a chance of fighting back. By the time we're done, the Masters of the Hall of Tyra will not find so easy prey as they did years ago. This I promise.”

“Bold words,” Derik said, speaking for his side of the room, “But empty. We do not know you, do not trust you. How do we know you do not plan to betray us? To serve us up on a platter as soon as we give you what you want?”

“Because our goals are aligned,” Quetzal said, “We have need of allies and who better than the mighty Zar of Wellind? This will be an ongoing relationship. You will receive aid from some of the mightiest Knights on the continent to fulfil your goals and we will maintain a friendship with a united Wellind, a new Kingdom born into Ouros.”

“And all of this for just one task?” Casin said with a snort, “You offer us the world. It sounds too good to be true. In my experience, such things often are.”

“We will begin with giving you one hundred Smiths,” Quetzal said, walking past Zelato, the man standing eerily still as he watched the woman, “Then Zelato and I will train them in the ways of a Knight. In a few short weeks they will be capable of feats beyond what the Berserkers of the past could match. Then, when the time comes, we will attack.”

“Nian,” Casin said softly, her teeth gritted, “You want us to attack the capital of Ragora. They have Gods knows how many Knights in that city. We will be cut to ribbons.”

“Not after our Berserkers have been instructed, Casin,” Pereton stressed, his smile wide, “We will destroy Nian, bring our old enemy to its knees and cut the throat of the nation that once cut ours.”

“Why Nian?” Murdu spoke for the first time, stepping forward as the light given off by the firepit danced across his face, “Why there?”

Pereton seemed surprised, taken aback even, that Murdu had decided to speak, “Because Nian is where we must go to fulfil our end of the bargain, Murdu'Zar.”

“I understand that, Pereton. I am not a simpleton,” Murdu growled at the fool as the others looked on in rapt attention, “I wish to know the reason for it. What do you want in Ragora, outsiders? You aren't going for the Zar, so why?”

Unexpectedly, it was Zelato who spoke up, his high voice carrying across the room and through his mask with ease, “We seek a young man of about your daughter's age, Murdu'Zar.”

“And a girl of the same, one with blonde hair,” Quetzal continued, her grin still in place and growing by the second, “They are... special. The Mentor wishes to speak with them and they won't come willingly.”

“So sneak into Nian and take them,” Murdu replied instantly, “You need not risk the Zar. You, masked man, can turn invisible or some such, can you not? What is stop you from simply grabbing them?”

Quetzal giggled childishly, raising a delicate hand to her mouth as though to hide her humour, “If only it were so simple, Clo'dorsha. If such a plan would've worked we would have seen it done, but it is impossible. The young man in question is a powerful Knight, one who would not come quietly if approached normally. That in itself is not a problem. Zelato and I would have no problem with one newly Bonded, but he is under the protection of another.”

“Who?” Murdu asked the question, despite already knowing the answer. He felt his heart sink into his gut as hi suspicions were confirmed a moment later.

“Mastan D'viritazi. The King of Lightning.”

All knew the tales of the King of Lightning, of his power and prowess on the battlefield. The story of Clan Hoflin and their defeat was still fresh in the minds of every one of the Zar. None spoke when the revelation was revealed, as it wasn't truly a revelation at all. The fact that they would be attacking Nian all but guaranteed being met by Mastan D'viritazi. The two foreigners didn't seem anxious which meant they had a plan.

“We, of course, will not expect the Zar to fight such a creature,” Quetzal assured all present, “Zelato and I will handle the boy, his woman and any threats that stand in our way. That includes Mastan D'viritazi. But if we were to attack ourselves, there is no doubt we would fall. We know of at least two Masters in Nian, both of whom are as powerful as we are. We will need to focus on them to the exclusion of all else. We will expect the Zar and their Berserkers to handle the lesser Knights in the city which, after your training, you will find remarkably easy I assure you.”

“That isn't exactly subtle,” Hili said in response, even as the Elders muttered amongst themselves once more, “You compel us to keep silent, to build our strength and keep the noise we make to a minimum, yet push us to attack one of the largest trading cities on Ouros? If even one of their ships leaves dock before we make the port then your plan will be for naught and Wellind will be put to the sword.”

“Our powers are great,” Quetzal said firmly, “I can assure you that not one boat will leave Nian after we arrive. We will leave no sign of Clan Zar's involvement, no colours will be flown, no recognisable armour worn.”

“The symbols of a coward, then,” Murdu said bitingly, “The act of a thief and cut-throat.”

“This is the price, Clo'dorsha,” Quetzal smiled, “And it is a fair one to offer for, as your friend said, the world.”

Murdu met the woman's eyes, trying once more to pierce through the veil that hid her emotions from view. She had another self, he suspected. She may not have been wearing a mask but the Lady from Andapa may as well have been. Nothing she had given them was genuine. She didn't seem real, something which Salas had intuited during one brief interaction. He could feel the room shift, as it had before when Pereton told them of his new allies. The whispers of the Elders was far more contained, far more accepting. The Jarl's Elders muttered to the others, slowly bringing them on side, telling them of the power they would have if they only said yes. Murdu felt sickness wash over him, the room spinning briefly, but he forced himself to remain standing. His left leg wobbled, the only outward sign of his turmoil and one which Pereton saw. The Jarl smiled, his disgusting grin making Murdu feel all the more ashamed to call the man the leader of his people.

“A fair price indeed, Lady Quetzal!” Pereton said, clapping his hand against the arm of his throne, “I believe we have heard all we need to for the moment. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I would ask you both to wait outside with the rest of the Clan. We have a decision to make.”

Casin shook her head sadly, looking to Murdu with tears in her eyes. Clo'dorsha grit his teeth, knowing the source of her turmoil. Casin knew, as Murdu did, what came next. The fact that it had moved her to tears, that her agony was tied to the future of her people, made it all the more acute to Murdu who scowled at the empty air in disheartened fashion, furious at his own uselessness.

The worst of it was that he could do nothing to stop what was coming. He could not challenge Pereton, for no slight was given, nor could he just kill the man. Such acts were honoured in other Clans, but not among the Zar. He also didn't have the support to formally replace the Jarl. He was unsure if that was what he even wanted. What could be done?

“Of course, Jarl. Thank you for listening, fine men and women of the Zar. Fare thee well. I hope you make the right choice.”

Even Quetzal's goodbye sounded like a threat as she strode past Murdu with Zelato in tow. Murdu caught her smirk in his direction out of the corner of his eye and it took all of the self-control he had accumulated over decades to avoid trying to kill her. She was a Knight through her own admission, and one who would be far stronger than the boy he had once faced. He couldn't die today, even if the worst came to pass. He needed to remain, to be strong. For his people. For Salas.

Useless. Weak.

“You cannot do this, Pereton.” Murdu whispered quietly, entreating what was left of the boy he'd once known, all fire and passion, one who would do anything for the Zar, “Your mind is twisted. Those two... those strangers are wrong. They are corrupt, I can feel it.”

“I thank you for your input, Murdu'Zar,” Pereton replied, his response like a whisper, “But this is for the Zar. All I do is for the Zar.”

Murdu shook his head, disgusted. He'd known that the young man he'd once taught how to hold a sword had long since died, but he'd needed to try regardless, “I knew it was useless, but felt I had to try regardless. To honour your father, to try to save his son. I have failed him again, it seems.”

“So it seems,” Pereton said with a snide chuckle, “Have no fear, Murdu. There will be a place for you in this new world I am forging for us all. It will be a sight to behold.”

Murdu'Zar ignored the words of the boy he had once considered a sibling and looked to the Elders. He knew then who had been bought by their Jarl and who had remained loyal to the people. It was in the way they turned their heads, the way they looked down and away or ignored him completely. He was ashamed to see Derik'Zar turn his head away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“So twisted we've become,” Murdu muttered, “Aren't we more than this?”

Clo'dorsha turned away from the Elders, not wanting them to see the tears that had formed in his own eyes before he blinked them away. A part of him died in that moment, a fragment of his self that he had clung to even as it crumbled into dust, “My vote is nay to these foreigners. But if the vote is passed then I will fight, as I always do. I will slaughter the innocents of Nian beside you all as we serve one not of the Zar.”

Murdu strode through the doors and back into the biting chill of the White Sea tainted air, breathing deep and freeing the stinking corruption from his lungs. What had his Clan come to? What had happened to his people, once so proud and strong, now twisted with a boy who spat on the memory of the man who had loved him more than any other? The spinning became more pronounced and Murdu took another breath, trying to steady his mind as he closed his eyes.

“My papa told you to stay away!”

Murdu's eyes opened, his axe already in hand as he looked to the side, his movement minimal as his heartbeat settled. He became one with the land and sea, letting the billowing fires of war light within his very soul. He saw Quetzal and her masked dog standing before Salas, who stood alone and away from the crowd. The Andapan woman was reaching out to her once more, her hand inches from touching his daughter, “Do not fear me, girl. I promise I mean you no harm.”

The axe was released, the throw flawless as it aimed for the head of the woman who'd dared to bring such division to his Clan, to flaunt his own word. The weapon tumbled through the air, the winds of Wellind aiding in its flight. A collision proved inevitable. Murdu had seen it crush skulls with ease a thousand times over. He thought, for a moment, that he could at least do one right thing before the sun set over the horizon.

Then Quetzal caught the axe.

Moving faster than the eye could see, she snatched it from the air with ease, a frown following as she looked up to decipher its origin. She smiled then, waving the heavy implement as though it weighed nothing at all, “You appear to have misplaced your axe, Murdu'Zar.”

Fury lit up his skin like fire. Murdu strode towards the woman, ripping his sword from his sheath and ready to slice her to ribbons. Knight or no Knight. He'd held back in the hall, not wanting to leave Salas alone in this world, but his rage was boundless now, barely contained as he aimed to at least wound the woman before he left to meet the Gods.

“Control yourself, Murdu! The Zar will surely fight for you if you attack. You will do nothing but get our Clan killed!”

The voice was familiar, an old and weathered hand on his sword arm. His anger fled as soon as he recognised the face of the old Seer, his mind clearing even as he silently cursed himself. He hadn't lost himself like that for years. The stress of the day, the vision of the woman reaching for his daughter, all of it brought bad habits back to the fore. Murdu looked to Salas, “Come here, girl.”

His daughter hurried to comply, all but running away from the pair. Quetzal watched her go with no small amount of amusement on her face, the axe discarded at her feet as though it were trash, “I meant no harm, Murdu'Zar. I just find her skin colour and height rather interesting. I did not expect to find a half-breed in these lands.”

Murdu said nothing, but grabbed Salas' arm when she drew close enough, pulling her around so his back was facing the Andapan as he examined his daughter for injury.

“I'm fine, papa,” Salas said, though the tremble in her voice said otherwise, “She didn't touch me.”

Murdu nodded. Helpless, weak once more. What manner of warrior was he who could not keep his word, and one given in defence of his own blood? He patted Salas on the shoulder, “Stay behind me.”

His daughter seemed thrilled by the contact, nodding insistently as she grinned. A mistake on his part. His relief at her safety and losing control of himself making him act out of character, showing affection. He turned back to the two, only to find that Nanali now stood in front of him, as though she was shielding them both from the two Knights before her.

“Do not attempt to touch her again, pestilent one,” The voice of the Seer of Gloryhome was at once a whisper and louder than any roar. All who gathered outside the high hall turned to her, Nanali's very presence demanding their attention. There were few who were respected so much as she, the authority she commanded near absolute among the Zar, “Salas' fate is written in the sun and stars, woven into the Great Weave. Her destiny is tied to another and not bound to your putrid touch.”

“What a brave, little woman,” Quetzal said with a giggle, looking to Zelato who also chuckled, clapping his hands as if it was some kind of show, mirth dancing in his hazy eyes. The Andapan peered at Nanali, as though examining a particularly interesting insect, “You are more than you appear to be, Bright One.”

“Aren't we all?” Nanali cackled, her laughter so great that tears touched at the corners of her eyes, “The irony of someone like you saying that is not lost on me. Remind me, which one of you am I speaking with again?”

The words meant little to Murdu, Salas, or to those watching, but they seemed to have a profound affect on Quetzal, who visibly flinched as though struck. The Lady raised a hand to her temple, applying deep pressure as she glared at Nanali. It was the first real expression of emotion that Murdu had seen from the woman, her mask lifted and true self revealed, “You play a dangerous game, Bright One.”

“It is one I have been playing long before you were born, girl,” Nanali laughed once more before smirking, “And I will be doing it long after you have been turned to dust.”

“Brave words from one so small. I have taken life for less.”

“Your words are empty, much like your soul,” Nanali said with a wry chuckle, “I have seen how I die and it won't be by your foul hands. Would you like to know how you die, Samsara of Brikland?”

The Lady took a step back at that, her face turning pale as she backed into Zelato who removed himself, looking to his companion with no hint of his humour fading. Seems that their partnership was not based on mutual respect.

“In a Storm.” Nanali whispered before her cackling became all the greater, the sound like a lash against the Andapan Lady's back. Quetzal looked poised to try and strike the woman, her pain and fear quickly replaced with a burning anger so great it looked about ready to consume her. As she raised her hand and Murdu raised his sword to defend the Seer, Zelato grabbed a hold of Quetzal's arm. The woman looked to her companion with a shocked expression, which was quickly followed by the return of her rage.

“Letting the Small Man out to play would be a bad idea, Sweet Lady,” Zelato said, his own laughter barely contained, “Mentor would be very unhappy with you. Oh yes. Very unhappy indeed.”

The tone of his voice, the need contained there, told Murdu that Zelato longed for such a thing to happen. Whoever the Mentor was, clearly Quetzal feared his wrath, for her fury was gone a moment later. Instead it was replaced once more by that blank expression and dead smile, “Thank you, Zelato. I will not forget again.”

The tall, masked man grumbled, seemingly disappointed as he let go of Quetzal, who immediately curtseyed to Nanali, “I seek your forgiveness, wise woman. I shouldn't have said the things I did, and apologies to you, Clo'dorsha. You have my assurances that I won't go near your daughter again.”

“Leave, spectre,” Nanali said, “And take your fallen fool with you. Fate has cast her die and the

Weave weeps for it, but as long as you are here in Gloryhome, you will stay away from Salas'Zar.”

Zelato laughed, his giggle very nearly as feminine as Quetzal's, though far more genuine. He seemed amused by the events transpiring before him, “How did you know that? Is it a magic trick?”

Nanali grimaced at him, “Would you like to know how you die, Zelato of Myrin?”

“Oh, I already know how I die, little mother,” Zelato replied as he danced from foot to foot, running fingers along the sides of his false mouth, “With a smile on my face!”

Nanali smiled in return, though hers was absent amusement, “You have no idea how right you are.”

“We will honour your condition, Bright One,” Quetzal said swiftly, “Come Zelato. We will await the word of the Elders at the ship.”

“As you wish, Sweet Lady, I live to serve.” Zelato followed after the Andapan, his jaunt as carefree as ever, unmoved by the words of Nanali.

Murdu grit his teeth at their leaving, his sword shaking in his hand as he tried to contain himself once more. Nanali was right to stop him from doing something rash. Should he attack the duo and be wounded, the Zar would surely rise to his defence and many would fall in the ensuing battle. He cursed himself, the very idea of putting his people in danger went against who he was, the very foundations of his identity. Yet still he wanted to give chase, to show them a true Wellinder, even if he was doomed to fail in the attempt. The fact that his falling would mean Salas being left alone only solidified the self-hatred roiling in his gut.

“Salas,” Nanali turned to the father and daughter, favouring the latter with a warm smile, “Give your father and I some time. We will be with you soon.”

Salas frowned, staring at her father with concern, but nodding after a mere moment of hesitation, “Yes, Nanali'Zar.”

Murdu did not look to the Seer, his eyes still fixed on the spot that Quetzal and Zelato had just vacated, his jaw clenched. He slid his sword back into its scabbard before walking over to the churned earth and picking up his axe, wiping the blade down thoroughly before sliding it into his belt. The shaft was warped from where Quetzal snatched the weapon from the air. If he needed any more proof that she was a Knight, he had just received it.

“Ferda would slap you for pitying yourself, Murdu'Zar.” Nanali chided as she slid up next to him, slapping his arm gently as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Covering from the cold did not reveal any weakness in the wild woman to Murdu's eye. She had lived a long life, aiding the Zar with everything she possessed. She had more than earned the right to comfort.

Murdu chuckled, imagining the scowl on Ferda's face and the anger in her eyes. What he wouldn't give to see it again, if only for a moment. If only the Gods were so kind, “Yes, she would. Thank you for stopping me, Nanali.”

“You are welcome, boy,” Nanali replied, gazing over at the hall, “So, a decision has been reached.”

It wasn't a question, doubtless she already knew the answer, but Murdu gave one regardless, “If not in voice then in spirit. I don't believe there was really any discussion to be had. Not truly. Pereton has been busy these past weeks it seems, making friends of the few Elders he hadn't turned to his cause. Even Derik'Zar has fallen in line. That was just a show, for the people, for me. Pereton will lead us to war.”

“Yes, he shall,” Nanali said softly, looking unconcerned, “The die is cast, as I said. What happens in these next weeks is all but certain. What comes after... well, that is less so. My vision grows dim, Murdu. What do they want? The two corrupted ones.”

“A boy and a girl,” Murdu grimaced, realising that his clan was now party to the capture of children. Slaves were acceptable among the Zar, even the killing of innocents, but not mindless slaughter for slaughter's sake, nor stealing the young to trade to others, “And we will kill Nian to give them want they want.”

“Ragora is an enemy. I will weep no tears for their spilt blood,” Nanali said with a shrug before her grasp of Murdu's arm firmed, “But I will for ours. We will not return from this whole, Murdu. In body or mind. The Zar lose something in this trade.”

“I believe we already have,” Murdu grimaced, “The soul of our people is at stake. What can you tell me of them, Nanali? These strange Knights who aim to aid us?”

“They aid by hindering. It is their nature, their way,” Nanali shook her head, sounding almost like she pitied them, “They are the lost and forgotten, children with power beyond imagining.”

“Could they stand a chance against Mastan D'viritazi?”

Nanali smiled, a small laugh leaving her weathered lips, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The Weave will decide when the time comes.”

“And their interest in Salas? You said she is bound to another. What does that mean, Seer?” No emotion was in Murdu's voice, but Nanali heard his desperation regardless.

Nanali shook her head firmly, “I have one rule, Murdu. I don't aim to break it now.”

“She is my daughter, Nanali.”

The Seer of Gloryhome narrowed her eyes at the giant as though he was an unruly child, “Do you seek to tug on my heartstrings, child? You know they broke a long time ago. I did not tell you of Ferda's fate and I will not speak of Salas'. She must find her own way, as we all must. You cannot protect her forever.”

Murdu looked to Salas, who seemed to have forgotten the entire event had taken place. She was distracted, her hand on her sword hilt as she looked to the others her age. They all stood together, separate from her, divided. Her blood made her unseemly in their eyes, the fact that she was his own daughter only adding to their need to stay away. She wished for friends, he'd known that since she was very young. The absence of such had made her stronger in some ways, but weaker in others. She now made companions of the slaves that Murdu kept in his hall, the young women he'd taken as he conquered towns, villages and cities in the Empire and the Eastern Islands. Little did she know that the only reason he'd taken them had been for her. It had caused more whispers to spread of him treating slaves as equals, but it had made her happy. He hadn't been the best father, absent for as often as he was in Gloryhome, but he had tried in his own way. He was at the least better than his own.

“Isn't it a father's job to try?”

Nanali's eyes softened at that, “It is, and I know you do try, Murdu. My eyes may be failing but I miss very little. Salas loves you very deeply. Ferda would be proud of you both.”

“I hope so.”

Nanali and Murdu looked to their peoples, taking in this sight of a united Zar, anxious though they may be. This sense of serenity would not last much longer.

“What must I do, Nanali?” Murdu whispered, “Give me guidance.”

“You must do what you always do, Clo'dorsha,” Nanali said, just as quietly, “Protect them. Lead them. When the time comes, you will have a choice of your own to make. One which will fall on no other shoulders but yours. You will make the right one, I know this.”

“How can you be so sure when I myself am not?”

“Because I've known you since the cot, Murdu'Zar,” Nanali chuckled, “You are the best of us. When your moment arrives, you'll follow the correct path.”